This is an old story to tide y'all over while I'm sick. And as illness has been the topic of many of my posts lately, I thought I'd post this particular story which originally appeared at the soc.sexuality.spanking Usenet newgroup in March of 2002. At that time I had recently been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (also called Myalgic Encephalomylitis outside the U.S) and was suffering a relapse severe enough to convince me that I had to take a leave of absence from school. As I'm in the midst of a similiar relapse, this seemed like a particularly apt story to post. It's not one of my better stories -- there are parts of it that make me wince a bit. And I kind of giggle to myself as the character of Walter is sort of an amalgamation of three people, all of whom I can recognize in certain lines. But, at any rate, here it is. Enjoy.
Story: Dealing with My Disability [M/F]
"I think we need to meet..." Walter's voice lingered in my mind as the
clock ticked closer to 5:30. When he said those words, I knew I was in
trouble. And with only fifteen minutes left until he arrived, I couldn't
decide if I wanted the minutes to hurry up and pass already, or to stay
off, away in a future that wouldn't come. At any rate, I still had
fifteen minutes -- no fourteen minutes - to rehearse my arguments. To
practice my spin...
"Well, I see you haven't touched your meds for today..." He glanced down at the plastic rectangle with boxes for each day containing pills and
capsules of various size and color on the countertop of my kitchenette
as he came into my studio apartment. D'oh!
"Oh, yeah...I forgot," I said without thinking.
"Well, I'll have to make sure I help you remember."
"Well, I mean, I didn't really forget...I just haven't gotten to them yet.
And, well, my throat has been kinda sore so they're not as easy to
swallow..." Yeah, there was always a health ailment to get me out of
trouble...Or so I thought...
"Yes, but that's all the more reason to make sure you take them if
you're not feeling well."
"True...I'm just taking them after I eat dinner...and some of them are for
bedtime anyway." Lame attempt, I know.
"Of course." He looked at me with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.
"Now, how about if I take a look at your journal." My
symptom/food/activity journal. It was something to help the doctors keep
track of my illness, as well as help me think about what I was doing. To
learn to listen to my body when I'd as soon ignore the headaches and
fatigue telling me I needed to rest before I get REALLY sick.
"S.s..sure..." Right to business, as usual. I handed him my spiral bound
notebook. This was the part I worried about. There in my pencil
scratchings, or lack of them, was the grim truth that I had not been as
diligent in keeping tack of my symptoms. And when I had written down my
food, it was stuff I shouldn't be eating. And when I tallied my
activities and the points of energy they cost me, I had clearly racked
up far too many.
"Hmmm..." Walter flipped through the pages as his eyebrow reached further
towards his hairline and his lips pursed together.
"See, I've been feeling better and I've been wanting to kinda see how
much more I can do...I mean, I think the herbal decoction from the
acupuncturist is really working - tastes like shi - I mean crap - but,
um, you know, I think I should push a little bit, try 'n get my body to
come back to the real world. And besides, I haven't had a relapse for
well over a month...I think I'm really starting to get better..."
"A month is hardly enough time to consider yourself 'cured,' my dear..."
His eyebrows crinkled towards the center as he looked away from the
notebook and down at me. He was only 5'10 or so, but as I'm exactly 5'
and ½ inch, he still towered over me. "And pushing yourself is why
you've gotten so sick in the first place." I rolled my eyes, sighed and
looked away. I hate when he insists on "logic" and "reality."
As my primary argument was no longer valid, I spent the next few minutes
as he flipped through the rule-lined pages trying to think of ways to
soften the edges of my transgressions. I used to try and think of
counter-arguments. Well, I still did. But I was no match for Walter. He
was a lawyer and had years more practice at it.
"You spent four hours at the mall on Saturday?? What were you thinking?
You're one major daily activity is only suppose one or two hours and not
that physically exerting...certainly not a four hour hike through the mall!"
"Well, I was hanging out with my sister...she was home and ---"
"And then you went out to a movie...and then out to a coffeehouse afterwards?"
"We would have gone to a bar but she's still underage." I grinned with
that mischievous twinkle. He glared.
"Are you trying to kill yourself?"
"I won't die..." I mumbled.
"You never know..."
"Yeah, I do. CFIDS isn't fatal...it's just.... debilitating..." The last word
scraped through my mouth. I really despised it. Or any of the words used
in brochures, medical journal articles, books, websites, or newsgroups
to describe my illness. A dark scowl washed over me. I guess I still
hadn't finished going through the Five Stages of Grief...
"That's right. It is debilitating and will get even more so if you don't
take care of yourself. And clearly you have not been doing that." His
voice had that mixture of sternness and impatience.
"It's just..." I didn't mean to start crying. Really. I had never cried in
front of Walter. But my scowl turned into tears and then into sobs.
"It's just that I never get to have any kind of normal life. I'm just so
tired of watching life go by and never having the chance to grab hold of
it, you know? I'm tired of feeling like some old woman..." I folded my
arms as my eyes became red and puffy and my nose started to run. Walter
stood frozen at first, then grabbed a Kleenex and handed it to me. "I'm
sorry..." I said. "I'm not crying on purpose to manipulate you or
anything. I mean, I know your right...it's just..."
"No, I understand...it's okay." He put his arms around me as I cried into
his chest. After a few minutes I calmed down, took a deep breath, and
blew my nose one more time. Walter gazed at me while I tossed the tissue
into the trash. "You know, sometimes I really have a hard time spanking
you because I know you're in so much pain as it is and I hate adding to
it." I gave him a faint attempt at a smile. "But, if the few minutes of
pain I give you keep you from weeks of pain later, I will do it." He
walked over to my desk and wheeled the chair out away from the
furniture. Sat down and sighed. Patted his khaki-clad thighs. "Well, I
think it's time for you to come lay over my lap." I nodded and laid my
plump little body down so that my bottom was the first thing underneath
his right arm.
The full skirt of my pink summer jumper came up towards my neck and my
white cotton panties scooted down to my knees. My bare feet dangled off
the floor. That feeling of utter exposure. And I certainly didn't feel
like an old woman anymore...Walter tapped his thin, slender wooden paddle
against my skin a few times as I braced for the coming stingy blows.
And they came. One on top of the other. Over and over. I curled my toes
in pain. Squeezed my eyes shut. Pressed my lips together. Every now a
then tried to swallow a whimper.
"So once again we find ourselves in this very embarrassing position..." he
began lecturing. Why did he say "we?" I was the one with the naked butt
up for God and everybody to see. But I was focusing too much on how much
my naked butt hurt to mouth off. "And why are we here?"
"Cause...I...ow...wasn't...taking care of...oweee...myself."
"That's right. And how were you not taking care of yourself?" His voice
was calm and focused. Why did he ask me questions while he spanked me?
Did he not realize that it takes a great deal of concentration to get
through a spanking? These queries were extremely distracting. Eventually
he stopped the questions and just whacked away at my cheeks and thighs.
I was whimpering steadily when he stopped. He rubbed the middle of my
back as I gazed at the carpet pile. The sides of his thighs pressed into
my stomach. I relaxed. Wrangled with my fingers and picked at lint on
"I know I don't need to tell you why you need to limit your activities
or not eat certain foods, or take your medication. You're a smart girl.
So, just do what you're supposed to do to get better. You've got to
focus everything on getting well. Okay?" That last word he said without
the sternness. More friendly. I nodded. He tugged the part of my hair in
a barrette. "Hey, you. Okay?"
"Alright then." I could see underneath the chair, down by my feet that
he was picking up the paddle again. Crap! I was getting more? A hot
splat on my backside answered. Apparently so. Another ten whacks seared
my already raw skin. The he stopped. Rubbed my back some more. Dropped
the paddle at his side to the floor. "Okay, we're done now." He held my
left arm as I pushed my right hand on his thigh to get up. As soon as I
was upright, I pulled up my panties and smoothed my skirt back down.
I stood in front of him as he still sat in the chair. Held my hands
behind my back. Bit my lower lip. Shifted my feet. Gulped and breathed
in staggered breaths. Walter smiled.
"Gosh, sometimes you really are such a little girl..." He shook his head.
I did a half roll of my eyes, smiled and bit my bottom lip again. "You
want me to help you put some ice on your bottom?" I nodded.
"Just lemme put some aloe vera on first." I went into the bathroom and
slipped off my panties. Cut off a half-inch portion of a leaf from my
aloe vera plant. Slit the side, peeled back the skin and rubbed the
cooling, gooey gel all over my backside. I came out and lay down on my
stomach on my bed. Walter placed the ice pack on top of my skirt
covering my bottom. As I bruise at the slightest touch, though not as
badly since I added Grapefruit extract and a synergistic Vitamin C to my
daily meds, the ice pack would keep the bruising to a minimum. Walter
patted me on the head.
"Now, I want you to rest and take care of yourself, okay?" I nodded.
"Then once you're better I can start beatin' on you to write those great
research papers for me to read." He grinned as I rolled my eyes and
scowled. "And you'll go back to being a great scholar and graduate
student -- why we started meeting in the first place..."
But at that moment I wasn't a graduate student or aspiring scholar, a
Person With CFIDS (PWC), or the old person I often felt with it. I was a
little girl who just needed someone to take care of me. Small.
Mischievous. Spirited. Rebellious. And little enough that my feet still
dangle when I'm over a knee getting spanked...